


On Impermanence: Giles

by viggorlijah



Series: On Impermanence [2]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-29 07:26:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1002617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viggorlijah/pseuds/viggorlijah





	On Impermanence: Giles

_"If we lived forever, if the dews of Adashino never vanished, if the crematory smoke on Toribeyama never faded, men would hardly feel the pity of things. The beauty of life is in its impermanence. Man lives the longest of all living things... and even one year lived peacefully seems very long. Yet for such as love the world, a thousand years would fade like the dream of one night."_

_Kenko Yoshida, Essays in Idleness (1330-1332)_

 

* * *

 

He had loved Jenny Calender. The feeling comes back to him at dusk, and he smiles awkwardly, amused at the simplicity of the emotion. When he was in love with her, sunsets and soppy songs on the radio seemed as straightforward, as honest as all the things he comforts himself with now.

Whisky and whips.

If Jenny were here, he'd be able to tell this to her, get the slow curl of her lips and then the wide grin he loved so much. The open laugh, unafraid and welcoming. He'd grown so used to snideness, sarcasm and dry wit, all the Watcher humour diligently practiced along with the tweed. With Jenny, he could say, I love you and the way the clouds light up when the sun sets, that reminds me of you. It's so beautiful and you're so beautiful and I sound like a Hallmark card, don't I? She would laugh and kiss him, and to her, he could say these things. He missed that.

So she would have understood his amusement at remembering how he'd felt, the wholesomeness of it, flowers and sweet kisses, dinner dates - even with monster trucks, falling in love like people on TV, all slow music and soft focus. But Jenny knew what he did, had seen demons and in the end, come back to stand next to him. She'd known that after a night of fighting unimaginable evil, counting student rolls and coming short, people had to go walk in the sunlight, joke and eat pizza. She'd understood why Buffy mattered, sulky teenager and slayer.

He hadn't lied to Buffy when he told her he'd never buried someone he loved before. Ethan, unfortunately, lived on. He thinks of himself telling Buffy about Ethan and he chokes on his whisky, half laughing, half horrified.

"What?" Ethan asks. He's clean now, rubbing himself down with a towel and leaving rusty streaks where the cuts haven't scabbed.

"Nothing."

Ethan studies him for a moment, then shrugs and turns to pack. It stings slightly. A few years ago, he would've been furious to be kept outside, to be held at a distance from his Ripper. Now - now it's late.

They spent the day beating each other. First Giles, a thousand tiny slices and then great bloody bruises where Ethan's fists worked their way up and down his ribs. Sex here and there, but mostly the pain. The small trunk pushed under his bed with the whips and chains, hidden from the children.

He'll be wearing turtlenecks for a week, but it's winter.

He feels good. Days like these, when Ethan passes through Sunnydale, on the run from somewhere or heading off to another disaster, Giles can think about Jenny without hurting too much. He's high on endorphins and slightly drunk.

The world is a wonderful place.

Ethan finishes dressing and comes to stand next to him. He's lost weight again. The skin over his collarbones is stretched taut. There's a faint curl of red just above his open shirt, striking on chalk-white skin. Ethan's still beautiful as they grow older. Giles turns more dignified, frighteningly more like his father in the mirror. Ethan seems to intensify with age. Everything growing more defined. Harder. When he moves and Giles looks a certain way, he glitters with power.

When they were teenagers, they never thought they'd make it past thirty. Now, they're in for the long haul. Angelus didn't kill him. The Initiative couldn't hold Ethan. They've still got their tattoos; they trace them with fingernails and sweat while they're inside each other.

"Good sunset," Ethan remarks. He takes Giles' glass and sips, one hand still doing up with his belt buckle. "Pollution."

"Mmm." There's comfort here. Distantly related families, Oxford, England. The Watchers, though they took an extra two decades to expel him, all those years after. A shared language.

Then there's the way Ethan can lick the scars on his thighs, the ones Buffy will never ever know about. The mindless bliss of beating Ethan, red handprints and red lashes painted all over that familiar skin. Knives, whips and chains. A shared language.

"She would've liked this," he says suddenly, surprising himself. He tenses.

"Mmm," Ethan says. He passes the whisky back. "Jenny would've."

It's late. He knows to the bone that if he had a chance, a single chance, to get Jenny back at the cost of Ethan's life, he would do that. He misses her so much. But she's gone, and it's late, and Ethan is a comfort these days.

"Dinner?" he asks, and Ethan nods.


End file.
